An Instagram Irish Goodbye

"Deleting Your Account is Permanent"

Quite a few years ago now, Instagram pulled an Irish goodbye. It might not be obvious to newer users (and by newer I’m talking years, not months), but to those who were there at the beginning, the Instagram we knew silently slipped away. In its place is the Meta-owned imposter. Stepfordgram.

To understand my departure, it’s helpful to know the reasons I first entered the art gallery Instagram once was, and why I left.

Square photos.

Few words.

Who knew this would be a recipe to attract people? But it worked. The simplicity and artful beauty of amateur shots is what lured me from Facebook to Instagram years ago. It wasn’t about gimmick shakes, inflated lips, and the perfect wardrobe. It wasn’t about fake lives at all. It was a snippet of the beauty of life and art, and authenticity shared with the Instagram world.

And then it wasn’t.

The app went from a chronological feed with primarily cute pictures to the grotesque metamorphosized, ad-saturated, algorithm-driven, SnapTok clone that it is now. The social media platform which once felt tailored for me like a bespoke jacket was now telling me I wasn’t cool enough for it.

It was jarring the first time I saw someone not even bother to post a picture, but to post text as an image. Text. Like a Ferrari with bumper stickers. Like the Louvre slapping an ad on the Mona Lisa. Like Anne of Green Gables lamenting her poor little story being ruined by Rollings Reliable.

This quiet place of art and authenticity became a world I tried to love. I still had friends, but it wasn’t the same. The real Instagram had slipped out the door a long time ago, and the new one had no heart or soul. It was a freeway when I wanted a cabin on a lake.

So I logged off.

I didn’t make a big announcement or try to draw attention. To friends who didn’t have a way to contact me, I gave them my phone number and email address. But I couldn’t bring myself to delete the account. I couldn’t completely slice through the tether binding me, because the app still housed so many memories, photos, and stories I didn’t want to lose.

That was three years ago.

The account remained dormant and never in those years did I find myself wanting to return. Instead, my time was filled with my kids, husband, friends, business, and a growing list of hobbies that my time away from Stepfordgram afforded me.

But pulling at me still was the tether of precious memories that I wanted back. So last week, Matt logged onto my account and downloaded all of my posts, stories, and the captions that go with them.

It was done. There was nothing on there for me anymore that I couldn’t get in the real world. The beauty and authenticity of the world around me. Family. Friendship. Delicious meals. Laughter. It was all here now, with me.

As I sat there, nostalgically looking at my old account now stored on my own computer instead of Meta’s servers, I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t post a final farewell to tell that distant world I was leaving it. Instead, I summoned the blood of my Irish ancestors, and deleted the account.

I left silently and shut the door behind me.